


Taking flight

by Sani86



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anathema Device Ships Aziraphale/Crowley, Artist Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Anathema Device Friendship, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Ballet dancer Crowley, Crowley & Anathema Device Friendship, Falling In Love, First Kiss, HIV/AIDS, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Past Drug Addiction, Vlerkdans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23396968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sani86/pseuds/Sani86
Summary: Aziraphale is a first-year fine arts student with an eye for beautiful people.Crowley is a professional ballet dancer with the most perfect body he'd ever seen.A story about art, self-expression and friendship through thick and thin.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 101
Kudos: 188
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner





	1. - one -

**Author's Note:**

> The plot of this story is based on Vlerkdans, an Afrikaans novel by Barrie Hough (It was also released in English as In Full Flight, but good luck finding a copy...) Thus, the only credit I take is wrangling the story to fit our ineffable boys and bringing it up to date with the 21st century.
> 
> Teen rating is mostly for language and a few of the later themes. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Aziraphale contemplated the rack of dumbbells gloomily. What was he even doing here? He’d asked Anathema the same thing on their way in.

“New year’s resolutions, remember,” she reminded him. “You said you needed to lose weight. Which is bollocks, by the way.” She silenced Aziraphale’s protests with a raised hand. “Also, you made me cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die pinkie-promise I’d drag you here kicking and screaming if need be, and I’m not about to bring down a curse on myself.”

Oh, right. _That’s_ how he’d ended up in the gym, feeling completely out of place amid the glaring lights and awful thumping modern music and well-muscled regulars that filled the place. Anathema was still running on a treadmill, but ten minutes of that particular torture had left him convinced he was having a heart attack, so he’d decided to come see if the weights section was any better. Fortunately, the gym had helpful posters tacked up on the walls showing some basic exercises, or he might just have turned around and walked back out. He picked up a smallish dumbbell and attempted to do something that was apparently called a bicep curl.

Five reps in, and everything from his shoulder blade to his fingertips felt like it was on fire.

“Whoa, mate,” came an unexpected voice behind him. “Not like that, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Aziraphale spun around to see who was addressing him, already blushing in embarrassment. The stranger – a tall, slim guy with fiery auburn hair held back by a black hairband – was regarding him with faint amusement. Unlike the peacocking body-builder types in their skin-tight training shorts and barely-there vests, the man was wearing loose-fitting sweatpants and a black t-shirt featuring some band Aziraphale had never heard of.

“Here, let me show you.” A hand was placed on his elbow, adjusting its position. “You want to keep your upper arm still – no moving your elbow – and keep the dumbbell parallel to the floor.” The other hand gently turned his wrist. “There. Now lift it slowly, and keep that elbow in its place.” Aziraphale did as he was told. “Okay, now lower it slowly... and stop there, you don’t want to straighten your arm all the way.” Aziraphale did a few more reps, concentrating on getting the movement right.

“Much better,” said the stranger.

“Thanks,” grinned Aziraphale, and swapped the weight to his other hand, mirroring the position he’d just been shown. “That’s it. You’re a quick study,” said the redheaded stranger encouragingly.

Aziraphale realised he still had no idea who he was talking to, so he put down the dumbbell and extended a hand. “I’m Aziraphale.”

“Crowley,” said the stranger, shaking his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Crowley,” said Aziraphale with a friendly smile. “Do you work here?” he asked.

“God, no,” laughed Crowley, “Although, maybe I should demand payment for doing their floor assistants’ job! No, I’m a client, same as you. Saw you come in with Ana; thought she might appreciate not having to nurse you through a sprain for the next week.”

“Oh, you know her?” Aziraphale enquired.

“Yeah, been friends for years, although we lost touch for a bit. We were at school together. She was a couple of years behind me, but... well, you’ve met her. Impossible not to be friends with her.” Aziraphale had to agree. Anathema’s ability to befriend anyone that was alive and breathing never ceased to amaze him. Some days it felt like they couldn’t so much as walk down the street without meeting one of her life-long bosom buddies.

“How do you guys know each other?” asked Crowley. “She your girlfriend?”

“Oh, dear me, no,” laughed Aziraphale. Girls were... not really his thing. “We’re at uni together. We bonded over our weird names.”

“Oh, so you’re an artist?” enquired Crowley.

“Well, an aspiring artist, I guess. I’m only in my first year. What do you do?” he enquired in turn.

“I dance with the Royal Ballet. So I suppose you could argue being in the gym is at least part of my job.”

“Bummer,” said Aziraphale sympathetically.

At this point they were interrupted by Anathema walking up and exclaiming, “Anthony! It’s been ages!”

“Ana!” beamed Crowley, enveloping her in a hug. “What did I tell you about calling me by that name?”

“What are you doing with Aziraphale, you old scoundrel?” she said, ignoring his protests. “Seducing him to your wicked ways? You wanna watch out for this one, Aziraphale,” she added with a teasing wink.

“Hey, I’m totally innocent, I swear!” protested Crowley. “I selflessly interrupted my very important training regime to stop your friend here breaking his own arm off!”

“Sure you did,” retorted Anathema, still grinning teasingly, “You’re _so_ well known for your altruistic spirit.”

“Oh, shut it,” said Crowley, but he was smiling. “Seriously, though,” he said, turning to Aziraphale. “You could use a few sessions with a personal trainer. You don’t wanna injure yourself.”

“Yes, well; broke student,” shrugged Aziraphale. “Guess I’ll have to hit the YouTube.”

Crowley regarded him thoughtfully for a few moments, then said, “Tell you what. I come here three or four times a week. Why don’t you join me when you can, and I’ll show you the basics.”

“Really?” said Aziraphale, surprised at this virtual stranger’s generosity. “That would be very kind.”

“Sure,” said Crowley with a grin. “Ana should still have my number.” He glanced at her to confirm, and she nodded. “Text me, and we’ll arrange when to meet up.”


	2. - two -

Three days later, Aziraphale found himself back in the gym with Crowley. Anathema had begged off coming, claiming a headache, so Aziraphale had come alone. He’d been worried that exercising with a virtual stranger would be awkward, but to his surprise they got along as if they’d been friends for years.

“I still don’t know, why are you working out?” asked Crowley as they were getting ready to start. “It will determine what types of exercises you need to do,” he explained.

Aziraphale gave him a disbelieving look. “You’re kidding, right?” Seeing Crowley’s genuinely confused expression, he sighed and explained, “You don’t need a medical degree to tell I need to lose weight.”

Crowley looked him up and down critically for perhaps a moment longer than was comfortable, and Aziraphale blushed, looked down at the ground. “I call bullshit.” Proclaimed Crowley at last. “You look perfectly fine to me.”

“Yeah, that’s what Anathema also says. It’s easy for you skinny types to talk, you don’t know what it’s like,” sighed Aziraphale.

“Maybe,” said Crowley, sounding unconvinced. “Or maybe you’re biased, and need to listen to the majority vote. But either way, we’ll focus on the basics for the major muscle groups, plenty of core work. It will give you good overall conditioning and strength, and then we can take it from there. Okay?”

“You’re the expert,” said Aziraphale, not really sure what he was agreeing to, but happy to change the topic away from his body.

\---

“You wanna grab a bite to eat?” asked Crowley later when they were heading for the changerooms.

As if on cue, Aziraphale’s stomach rumbled loudly, and they both burst out laughing. “I’ll take that as a yes, then,” said Crowley, stripping off his shirt and stuffing it into his bag, grabbing a towel and a toiletry bag. “See you in five,” he added as he sauntered off to the showers.

Aziraphale nodded and made a vaguely affirmative noise, trying not to stare. Crowley’s torso looked like something Michelangelo might have sculpted. Given time and perhaps an anatomy textbook, Aziraphale was sure he could pick out every single muscle. The human body had always fascinated him – it was by far his favourite subject to draw – and Crowley’s was perhaps the most perfect specimen he’d ever seen. He decided that he simply _had_ to ask Crowley to model for him. Maybe just wait until they’d known each other a bit longer; wouldn’t want to creep him out.

\---

They’d settled on a Chinese place a couple of blocks from the gym, a favourite among cash-strapped students for its huge portions and small prices.

“So,” said Crowley after they’d ordered. “What made you decide to study art? You don’t really look like the arty type.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Aziraphale.

“I don’t know, you just... artists are always a bit weird, right? Like Ana. She totally looks like an artist.”

Aziraphale had to agree – their mutual friend tended to dress in weird Victorian-Gothic outfits, all black lace and long skirts. She had about a dozen different piercings and several tattoos, and the streaks in her hair changed colour at least every other month. She certainly fit the whole artist aesthetic. Aziraphale, on the other hand, tended to tan chinos or blue jeans paired with plain light-hued button-up shirts and sweater vests or chunky jumpers.

“And me? What do I look like, then?” asked Aziraphale, part curious and part teasing.

“Hmm.” Anthony contemplated the question. “English major would be my first guess. Or maybe theology, or history. Something quiet and scholarly, anyway.”

“Are you implying that I look _boring_?” said Aziraphale with mock indignation.

“Nonono, not at all!” said Crowley hurriedly, seeming worried hat he’d really offended Aziraphale. “You just look all bookish and innocent, the kind of guy who’s the teacher’s favourite. I always thought artists must have a bit of the devil in them; you just come off as far too... angelic.”

Aziraphale laughed at this, causing Crowley to give him a puzzled frown. “What’s so funny?” he demanded.

“Oh, nothing, you just reminded me of my nickname from high school. I had really chubby cheeks back then, and my friends decided that what with the blonde curls and all, I looked like one of those cherubs from the renaissance paintings. So they nicknamed me Angelface, and it stuck. Thank goodness it didn’t follow me to uni.”

Crowley chuckled at this explanation. “Yeah, I can totally see that: Aziraphale the angel. Think I’ll have to call you that from now on.”

“Oh, shut it,” said Aziraphale, but without rancour.

Aziraphale was saved from further angel-based teasing by the arrival of their food. He took a bite of his sizzling beef and noodles, and made a happy little sound of pure pleasure. “Food like this is why I have to go to gym,” he complained, before taking another generous bite.

Crowley stole a sliver of beef from his plate. “Hmm, that’s good. Worth any amount of gym time,” he grinned. “Anyway, you still haven’t answered my question: how did you end up studying art?”

“Oh, I’ve been drawing pretty much since I could hold a pencil,” explained Aziraphale. “My mom’s an artist, see, so I grew up with it. Never considered doing anything else; can’t even imagine it.” He paused for another bite of food. “How about you? How did you end up in the ballet?”

“It was ridiculous, really: I saw Billy Elliot when I was about, oh, five or six. I was a rebellious little shit, and ballet seemed like a good way to piss off my dad, so I nagged my mom until she let me try out for a class. It worked – my dad nearly died of embarrassment, so I decided to stick with it. I totally fell in love with it after a few months though, surprising no-one more than myself. I’ve been dancing ever since.”

“Wow, so that’s what... fourteen years?”

“Closer to sixteen, I think,” said Crowley. “Looks like we both turned a childhood hobby into a lifelong obsession.” He grinned.

“Well, you must be pretty good to have a spot with the Royal Ballet. Remains to be seen if I’ll ever live up to my mom’s name.” asked Aziraphale. After a moment, he added, “And your dad? Did he ever get over it?”

A dark look clouded Crowley’s features for a moment. “He’s not in the picture anymore,” he said, in a voice that firmly put an end to that discussion.

“Right.” Said Aziraphale awkwardly. “So, um... What are you working on at the moment?”

Crowley’s face lit up at the question. “We’re performing Romeo and Juliet for a couple more weeks; I’m dancing Romeo, so it’s been pretty punishing. But the next project is so much more exciting: we’re doing a big showcase performance about mythical creatures. Unicorns, dragons, mermaids, elves – it’s gonna be spectacular!” Crowley’s eyes were bright with excitement. “We’re doing all original choreography, and most of the music is also pretty obscure, some of it brand new. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever danced before.”

“That sounds amazing.” responded Aziraphale. “What part are you dancing?”

“The phoenix. You know, the firebird? The music is out of this world.” Crowley smiled widely as he shoveled another bite of food into his mouth.

“Sounds fantastic,” said Aziraphale. “Me and Anathema will have to come see it.”

“Oh definitely,” agreed Crowley; “I’ll get you tickets.”

\---

Walking back from the gym that evening, Aziraphale caught sight of his reflection in a darkened shop window. Hmm, okay, maybe Crowley had a point about not looking like an artist. He frowned; an artist was all he’d ever thought of himself as. Was he maybe... not enough of one?

Later, he would blame this train of thought for what happened when the bright lights of the tattoo parlour across the street caught his eye.

“Zira, what’s that?” exclaimed Anathema excitedly the next day in class. “You didn’t tell me you were planning on getting an earring?”

“I wasn’t,” explained Aziraphale. “It was sort of a spur of the moment thing.”

She contemplated the small silver stud. “Well, I like it” she finally decided.

Aziraphale agreed, and so did his mother when he saw her that weekend. His father, on the other hand, was not as impressed.

“Makes you look like a poofter,” he said gruffly, earning him a slap on the arm from his wife.

“Well, it makes me _feel_ like an artist,” said Aziraphale, turning around and walking out of the room before his expression betrayed him.


	3. - three -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: mentions of past drug use and overdose, mentioned death

> From: Crowley (Received 15:35) hey angel, rehearsal running late today, can we push gym an hr later
> 
> From: Crowley (Received 15:36) or u can come watch n we can leave 4 gym after
> 
> (Sent 15:40) I’d love to come watch your rehearsal; I will come as soon as class lets out at 17:00. Where?
> 
> From: Crowley (Received 15:45) rbs in floral street
> 
> From: Crowley (Received 15:45) *location*
> 
> From: Crowley (Received 14:45) ask4 marge @reception
> 
> From: Crowley (Received 14:45) cu 😊 

\---

“There you go.” Marge cracked open the studio door and gestured for Aziraphale to go in. He slipped in quietly, shutting the door behind him without looking, captivated by what he was seeing.

Crowley was dancing a _pas-de-deux_ with a shortish, dark-haired ballerina to some classical music that sounded vaguely familiar. Romeo and Juliet, his memory supplied. The dance was slow, sensual, romantic – everything the play was meant to be. Aziraphale knew he was staring, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The two dancers were moving like one creature, as smoothly as honey dripping from a spoon. Aziraphale had read Romeo and Juliet, of course, had even studied it in high school, but suddenly he felt like he’d never truly understood it until now. It was mesmerising.

When the dance ended, Crowley came over to Aziraphale, grinning widely. “What do you think?”

“It was... I’m speechless, to be quite honest.”

Crowley laughed at the praise. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Oh you should,” replied Aziraphale. “You absolutely should.”

“Is that new?” asked Crowley, gesturing to his ear.

“Oh. Yes, I got it last week,” answered Aziraphale, somewhat flustered. “I though it would be... a nice change.”

“Suits you,” grinned Crowley. “Very artistic.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, knowing exactly what Crowley was referring to.

Just then, the dark-haired ballerina appeared at Crowley’s side. She slipped an arm into his possessively and handed him a water bottle. “Wanna introduce me to your friend, Crowley?” she asked, eyeing Aziraphale suspiciously.

“Oh, yeah. This is Aziraphale,” began Crowley.

“Oh, so _you’re_ Aziraphale,” the girl interrupted with a knowing look. Aziraphale wondered what exactly that was supposed to mean, but he simply extended a hand, saying “The one and only. Literally.”

“This is Bella,” continued Crowley. “My partner.”

“The Juliet to his Romeo,” said Bella, lifting a hand to her forehead dramatically.

“Yeah, yeah,” chuckled Crowley. “but I’m still not gonna kill myself for you.” Bella stuck out her tongue at him.

“Places!” called a voice, and Bella hurried off. Crowley handed his water bottle to Aziraphale and gestured to a few chairs against one wall. “Have a seat, we should be done in half an hour or so.” Aziraphale was quite happy to spend the time staring at the dancers, wishing he had a video camera and trying to memorise every detail.

\---

After the rehearsal wrapped up, Crowley led the way to his car – a sleek black vintage number. Aziraphale couldn’t resist running an admiring hand over the roof.

“You like her?” said Crowley, grinning like a proud parent.

“She’s a beauty,” said Aziraphale. “I don’t usually draw machines, but I think I would make an exception for her.”

“I’d hang that on my wall,” Crowley smiled, getting in to the car.

“So, what do you usually draw?” asked Crowley, pulling out of the parking.

“People, mostly” responded Aziraphale. “The human form is just so endlessly variable; I don’t think I could ever get bored with it.”

“Huh. Never thought of it that way.” Crowley shot him a sideways glance. “I’d like to see some of these famous drawings of yours. Only fair, since you saw me at work today.”

“Uh, sure,” said Aziraphale. “You can come visit the studio sometime.”

Aziraphale took a breath – now was his chance. “Speaking of that, I’d like to ask you a favour.”

“Hmmm?” said Crowley distractedly, swerving around a stationary bus.

“Would you maybe be willing to sit for a drawing for me?” Aziraphale asked nervously. Crowley’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t say anything. “You see,” Aziraphale explained, “We have to do figure drawings from life for class, and, well...” How to say this without sounding weird? “Let’s just say, you’ll make for a nicer picture than any of the models from uni.”

Crowley’s mouth quirked into a half-grin. “Are you saying I’m pretty?” he teased.

“Oh, shush,” said Aziraphale, a bit flustered “I’m not inflating your ego any further, so stop fishing for compliments. But you have really good muscle definition. It will be nice to draw.”

“Yep, definitely calling me pretty,” said Crowley, full-on smirking now, and Aziraphale felt his cheeks heat. “Okay, sure, I’ll let you draw me,” relented Crowley, “But on one condition: you do me that drawing of the Bentley.”

“The Ben-? oh, you mean the car,” said Aziraphale. “Sure.”

“Then it’s a deal. Wait, I don’t have to pose naked, do I?” asked Crowley, looking vaguely panicked.

“Not unless you really want to,” chuckled Aziraphale, and Crowley joined him.

“Yeah, hard pass on that. I’ll go as far as my underpants, but that’s it.”

The nearest parking space they could find was two blocks from the gym, so they grabbed their bags and started walking. They’d hardly walked a dozen steps when they passed by what looked like a sleeping tramp lying in the alleyway between two buildings. Aziraphale didn’t even break stride – it was not such an unusual sight in this part of London – but Crowley stopped, drawing in a sharp breath. Next thing Aziraphale knew, Crowley was kneeling next to the man, shaking him by the shoulders. When this didn’t get a reaction, he pressed two fingers to the man’s throat, feeling for a pulse and swearing under his breath.

“Crowley? What’s going on?” asked Aziraphale from the mouth of the alleyway.

“Drug overdose, I think” said Crowley, picking up a syringe from the alley floor and holding it up for Aziraphale to see. “This guy needs to get to hospital, like, right now.”

“Should I call for an ambulance?” asked Aziraphale, reaching for his phone.

“No time,” responded Crowley, already pulling the man’s arm across his shoulder. “We’ll take him.”

Aziraphale stared, wide-eyed and uncertain.

“Don’t just stand there! Help me!” urged Crowley.

Aziraphale hurried over to help him, and together they wrangled the unconscious man into the back seat. Crowley took off like a racehorse from the starting gates, weaving through traffic and screeching around corners in a way that made Aziraphale clench his eyes shut and pray they’d get there alive.

At the hospital, Crowley pulled into an ambulance bay and hurried off, returning with three medics pushing a stretcher.

“We found him on the street. He had this with him.” Crowley handed them the syringe they’d found with the man.

Two of the medics were already manhandling the man onto the stretcher, gabbling to each other in a jargon that seemed to consist mostly of abbreviations. “Thanks,” said the third medic, nodding at Crowley. “We’ll take it from here.”

And with that, they pushed the man into the A&E and out of their lives.

Crowley got back into the driver’s seat and let his head sink onto the steering wheel.

“Are you okay?” asked Aziraphale when he hadn’t moved for a full minute.

“Not really” said Crowley, straightening up with a sigh and rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Fuck. Never thought I’d have to deal with that again.”

“Again?” asked Aziraphale with a frown.

Crowley made a sound which may have been a stifled sob. “Once before. Lost my best friend and first love this way, about five years ago. He got me hooked on drugs too – it made me feel better about all the shit with my dad, you know? At least for a while. But then one night he took too much... and I was too late to save him...” Crowley’s voice cracked, and he took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. “Anyway. I quit it all after that. Cold turkey. Two weeks of solid hell, that was, but every time I wanted to use I thought back to that night...” Crowley looked out of the window for a moment, then shook his head as if trying to dislodge the memories. It didn’t quite erase the pain from his eyes.


	4. - four -

“Okay, so... what do I need to do?” They were in one of the drawing studios at the Academy, mercifully deserted on a Sunday morning. Crowley was stripping down to his pants, looking nervous.

Aziraphale was setting up a fresh sheet of paper on a drawing table. “Well, you need to be able to hold the pose for at least half an hour at a time, if I’m to get anything done, so it has to be at least somewhat comfortable. I’d prefer something a bit more interesting that just sitting there, though.”

“Tell you what, I’ll try some poses and you tell me when you see something you like. Lucky for you, I do a lot of yoga.”

Crowley started with a few gentle warm-up stretches before sitting down on the floor. He tried a few different arrangements of his limbs, ending up with his right leg pointed almost straight up, braced by his left hand, arm passing behind his head.

“Oh wow, that’s beautiful,” said Aziraphale. “Will you be able to hold it?”

“Sure, Angel” said Crowley cockily. “This body is a well-trained machine. It’s hardly even a stretch.”

“Fantastic,” said Aziraphale. “Just turn your head this way,” he said, gently guiding Crowley’s chin until he was looking directly to the left. “Perfect. Don’t move.” He pushed a heavy stool over until it nudged Crowley’s raised leg. “Rest your leg against this if you need to,” he said, before moving over to the drawing table, grabbing a pencil, and setting to work.

Aziraphale lost himself in the drawing until he was interrupted by Crowley’s voice. “Hey, any chance we could take a break soon? I need to pee.”

“Just a sec,” answered Aziraphale distractedly, finishing a few lines. Then he looked at his watch: forty minutes had passed. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I should have let you take a break by now.” He put down his pencil and fished out his phone. “Let me just take a couple of photos before you get up.”

“Photos? enquired Crowley. “I thought the whole point of this was drawing from life?”

“They’re just so that I can be sure to position you exactly the same way when we go on,” explained Aziraphale, snapping a few photos on his phone. “There, all done. You can relax now.”

Crowley dropped his leg gratefully, rolling his shoulders to work out the tension that had built up in the muscle. He winced a bit as he got up. “Fuck, how do normal not-professional-dancer people even do this?” he said, twisting his torso.

Aziraphale smiled. “Well, to be fair, that’s a pretty ambitious pose you chose. But at least you won’t have to hold it all the time; when I’m drawing your face and bottom leg and so on, you’ll be able to relax a bit more.”

“Great news,” responded Crowley. “But first, toilets. And coffee.”

“Hmm, a cup of tea does sound good,” said Aziraphale. “But put on your pants first.”

When they returned, Aziraphale spent a bit of time arranging Crowley just so, constantly referencing the photos he’d taken, before returning to his drawing. He had finished the outlines earlier, and now he started on the shading, his pencil dancing across the paper as he added dimension and texture to Crowley’s shape. He couldn’t help but grin to himself as he worked; Crowley was by far the most beautiful model he’d ever had the opportunity to draw.

He was busy working on the legs now, pencil tracing the long lean lines of Crowley’s thigh. He frowned and looked closer – what were those marks? They looked like some sort of scarring, or maybe a birthmark.

“What are those? On your leg?” he asked Crowley, gesturing with his pencil.

“Oh. Fuck. Needle tracks, from, you know, back when I used,” Crowley explained awkwardly. “Didn’t want to inject in my arms since we dance sleeveless a lot of the time. Couldn’t risk anyone finding out. But my tights hid those.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale awkwardly, not really knowing what else to say, so he bowed his head to his work again.

In the end, he decided not to draw the marks, opting instead to make the skin smooth and flawless. He didn’t want any blemish defacing his perfect subject.

They managed two more sessions before both the artist and the model ran out of steam, so they decided to break for lunch. Aziraphale was pleased with his morning’s work: he’d finished almost all of the body, and only the face and hands remained.

Crowley wandered over to the drawing table as he was pulling on his shirt. “Fuck, angel, you work fast. I’m sure I’m not quite as good looking as that, though.”

“Are you questioning my observational abilities?” asked Aziraphale, feigning offense.

“Perish the thought,” replied Crowley, chuckling.

“Aziraphale! What are you doing here on a Sunday?” They were being addressed by a shortish, middle-aged woman standing in the doorway.

“Oh, hi Professor. No rest for the weary, I’m afraid. This is the only day Crowley here was available.” said Aziraphale, gesturing to Crowley, who was now pulling on his trousers.

Professor Tracey was one of his favourite lecturers. At first sight, she looked like a fairground palm-reader, all flowing gowns and chunky costume jewelry, but in reality she was a kindly soul who tended to act as a sort of mother hen to the first year students. She was also the only one of his lecturers who hadn’t mentioned his mom, which he appreciated; perhaps she understood his need to be seen as an artist in his own right.

He gestured to Crowley, who had sauntered over to them. “Crowley, this is Professor Tracey. She teaches our drawing classes. Crowley is a friend who’s modelling for me,” he explained.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” said Professor Tracey, holding out a beringed hand for Crowley to shake. Crowley took the hand, but instead of shaking it, he kissed it with a dramatic bow. Professor Tracey’s laugh rang out like a bell. “I like this one, Aziraphale; you should keep him!” she said, causing Crowley to blush and Aziraphale to giggle.

The professor wandered over to the drawing table where Aziraphale had been working. “This is looking good, Aziraphale. Your technique is really improving.”

“Thanks,” said Aziraphale, smiling at the praise. “I’ve been working on it.”

“It’s paying off,” said Tracey, nodding. “But for now, you two get out of here. Come on, take a break; go out and be young,” she said, shooing them toward the door.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187976701@N07/49780933481/in/dateposted-public/)

([Here's the drawing](https://sani-86.tumblr.com/image/614202957468188672), more or less)

\---

They decided to get some takeaways and head to Aziraphale’s dorm room for lunch. Crowley had asked to see some of his work, and he could hardly refuse. However, he did insist that they finish eating and wash their hands before touching his sketchbooks.

“Okay,” he said, handing over a pile of books. “This one is anatomy studies, and this one is still life drawings,” he explained, indicating two of the books. “They’re from school.”

“And this one?” asked Crowley, indicating a sketchbook that Aziraphale had left on the desk. It was much more worn than the rest; obviously well-used and well-loved.

“Oh, that one is just stuff I draw for myself.” Aziraphale wished he’d thought to pack it away. He didn’t usually show his personal sketchbook to anyone; it was just a bit too vulnerable. This was where he poured out his heart in lines of graphite and ink, a wordless journal of everything he was thinking about. It had always been just for him. But to his surprise, he found that he wanted to show it to Crowley. His friend had trusted him enough to model for him – heck, he’d even let him take half-naked photos of him. He wanted to return that trust. So he handed over the sketchbook, and walked over to the kettle to go make tea.

Aziraphale kept his back turned to Crowley as he made the tea, listening apprehensively to the appreciative noises Crowley made every now and then. When he returned, bearing two mugs of tea, Crowley was staring at one particular drawing, reverently running his finger along the edge of the paper. Aziraphale leaned over, curious to know what he was looking at. It was one of the few drawings he’d done in coloured pencil: a bird-like creature in vibrant shades of orange and red, spreading its wings in flight. The feathers seemed almost to glow, and at their tips their shape shifted to resemble flames. They seemed to dance as Crowley shifted the page in his hands.

“A phoenix?” Asked Crowley, glancing up at Aziraphale.

“Yes,” he said, remembering why he didn’t let people see this sketchbook – it gave away far too much. “After you told me about the ballet, I was curious, so I read up a bit on the legend of the phoenix. The imagery was so vivid, that, well...” he gestured at the drawing. Crowley was still looking at it.

“This is magnificent,” he said. “Say, do you think I could maybe use this for my ballet? We have this fancy projector screen thingy that they use to change the backdrop for every scene. This would be just perfect for my dance.”

Aziraphale blushed at the praise. He wasn’t convinced that the drawing was anything particularly spectacular, but he found he couldn’t say no in the face of Crowley’s enthusiasm. “I guess that would be okay,” he said shyly.

“Awesome! I have to show this to the scenographer right away. And the choreographer,” he babbled excitedly, pulling out his phone and snapping a photo.

Crowley resumed his paging through the sketchbook, and Aziraphale sat looking over his shoulder, occasionally commenting on something but mostly just watching the expressions on Crowley’s face.

When he got to the end of the sketchbook, he closed it and handed it back to Aziraphale. “I’m no art expert, but these are fucking amazing,” he said, causing Aziraphale to blush and duck his head, mumbling something self-deprecating. “I’m serious, angel. You’re gonna be famous one day, mark my words.”

“Oh, stop,” said Aziraphale. “If anyone in this room is headed for fame, it’s you.”

Crowley laughed. “I’m far too close to my best-by date. If I was gonna get famous, I should have done so already.”

“Nonsense,” argued Aziraphale, “You’re magnificent, anyone with eyes can see that!” The pinking of Crowley’s cheeks made him realise that his praise was perhaps getting a bit effusive, so he decided to change tack. “Anyway, how’s the phoenix dance coming along?”

Crowley was delighted at the chance to talk about his new project. “I’ve finally got the whole choreography memorised, so now it’s just a matter of practicing it until it’s perfect. Here, let me show you,” he said, reaching for his phone again. “I like to film myself sometimes, so that I can see what needs improvement,” he said by way of explanation, handing the phone to Aziraphale.

It was a short video clip, barely a minute long, and it started somewhere in the middle of a dance sequence. The music was a bit tinny – being a recording of a recording – and the lighting was far from ideal, but Aziraphale was nevertheless entranced. Crowley seemed to fly like the mythical bird he was portraying. Aziraphale gasped when a particularly spectacular series of leaps ended in a spin, a couple of wavering turns and a sudden collapse, before the video ended.

“Good, hey?” grinned Crowley. “That’s the end of the first part – the death of the phoenix. But of course the whole point is that the phoenix never stays dead for long. The next part if the rebirth. It’s even ore spectacular than the death. Don’t have a video of that, though.”

“Pity,” said Aziraphale, reluctantly handing the phone back to Crowley. “I’d love to see it. Have Bella film you next time, why don’t you?”

“Or you can just come watch me practice,” countered Crowley – and there was no way Aziraphale would ever refuse that offer.


	5. - five -

Sundays at the art studio quickly became a regular thing. Sometimes Anathema would join them for company (or to actually get some work done herself), and they always ended up getting lunch together, which would as often as not run on into hanging out for the rest of the day. Aziraphale’s portfolio of drawings of Crowley grew steadily.

He was looking through them with Professor Tracey one day, trying to decide which of them he should exhibit at the students’ end-of-term gala event. “I have a question for you, Aziraphale,” said the professor, leafing through the drawings. “You said Crowley’s a professional ballerina, right? I’m looking at your drawings of him, and he looks perfect – almost too perfect to be human.”

“Yes, so?” said Aziraphale, confused. Professor Tracey’s assessment of Crowley sounded about right to him.

“ _So,_ I’ve known a few dancers in my time, and their feet are always a mess. Bruises, blisters, crooked toes – the dancing wrecks them. Yet your Crowley’s feet are always pristine. Why is that?”

“Well... the thing is...” Aziraphale was struggling for words. “You said it yourself – he’s almost inhumanly perfect. So why would I draw him broken? The damage to his feet... it’s like a blemish on a flawless work of art... it ruins the picture.”

“Ruins it?” said Tracey, raising her eyebrows. “Oh, no, I don’t think that’s the case at all.”

Her expression shifted to something thoughtful. “It’s our flaws that make us human, after all. You see, Aziraphale, your drawings are technically faultless – your technique is advanced far beyond you classmates’. But your drawings lack heart. They’re like a marble statue rather than a real person – flawless, but cold; an object of admiration, but not love. Art is about more than just the flawless rendition of an image: if that’s your goal, you may as well take a photo and be done with it. It’s the part of his soul that the artist puts into the work that gives it life. _That’s_ what’s missing in these drawings. I want to look at them, and see _you_.”

Aziraphale listened to this speech in silence, somewhat taken aback his professor’s words. Cold? Lifeless? Was that really how his work came across? Surely not. Crowley was one of the most... _alive_ people he knew; how could he fail to convey that?

Professor Tracey had fallen silent and was looking at him expectantly. “Okay,” he said weakly. “I’ll give it some thought.”

“You do that,” she said, kindly, before turning to leave. She paused in the doorway. “You can do this, you know.” She said, as if sensing the self-doubt that was threatening to overwhelm him. “You have a talent for drawing like I’ve rarely seen, and you have a beautiful soul – you just need to find a way to get the two to connect.”

\---

That night in bed, Aziraphale was still mulling over Professor Tracey’s advice. He picked up his phone and scrolled through his photo gallery. There were plenty of photos of Crowley in various poses, taken during their drawing sessions, as well as photos of the completed drawings that he’d taken to show his mom. He couldn’t help but feel a glow of pride at how perfectly his drawings captured Crowley’s form. But then his scrolling brought up a candid photo he’d taken of Crowley and Anathema laughing over some now-forgotten joke. He was struck by the strength of the emotion radiating from the photo – the sense of sheer, carefree joy made it almost impossible to look at it without wanting to smile along. In this photo, he thought, Crowley looked more beautiful that in any of his carefully constructed poses. He shut the phone off with a sigh. Maybe the professor had a point.

There was a problem, though, and it was this: he really needed to keep a tight rein on his emotions when he was around Crowley. The more time they’d spent together, the more his admiration had drifted beyond something purely aesthetic. Sometimes he found himself tracing the lines of Crowley’s torso with his eyes, wondering what it would feel like to run his fingertips along the path his gaze was following. He would carefully draw a hand, and be overwhelmed by the desire to intertwine those elegant fingers with his stubby ones. As for drawing Crowley’s lips... well, he had to shut down his imagination completely at that point.

And that was why he couldn’t put his heart and soul into drawing Crowley: there was no telling what he’d end up revealing. He shuddered at the thought of his biggest secret getting out. His dad would probably disown him. And Crowley – well, he didn’t even want to think about that. Even if Crowley didn’t abandon their friendship, Bella would be sure to kill him. She’d been acting increasingly possessive of Crowley on the few occasions that Aziraphale had gone to watch their rehearsals, glaring at him and pulling Crowley away from every conversation as soon as she could. No, dealing with Crowley’s jealous partner was the last thing Aziraphale needed. He sighed, turning off the lamp and burrowing into the pillows.

The next Sunday in the studio, though, he started a very different kind of drawing.

(This is how I imagine that drawing)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187976701@N07/49780396298/in/dateposted-public/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art at the end of this chapter!


	6. - six -

“Do you have any plans for next Friday evening?” Aziraphale asked Anathema over coffee one day.

“Nothing important, why?” she responded distractedly, munching on a biscuit.

“Crowley gave me two tickets to the opening night of their new show – you know, the mythology one? Where he’s dancing the phoenix? You should come with me.”

“Oh, so now that your boyfriend’s not available, I’m good enough to be your date again, hey?” she said with a smile, clearly teasing him.

“Oh, come on, Anath-... Wait, boyfriend? What boyfriend?” said Aziraphale, confused.

“Crowley, of course.” Aziraphale’s expression must have betrayed something, because she asked, “What, isn’t he?” seeming genuinely surprised.

“No! He’s just a friend! Why on earth would you even think that?”

“Really, Zira?” said Anathema in mock exasperation. “You guys spend more time together than me and Newt, and we’re actually fucking.” Aziraphale choked on his doughnut at this, but Anathema just continued calmly. “Whenever I’m looking for you, you’re with Crowley, and when you’re not, you’re usually working on drawings of him or talking about him. You can’t blame me for jumping to conclusions.”

“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. He’s modelling for me, and we gym together, that’s all.” Anathema raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Okay, we’re good friends. I enjoy his company. But that’s all. Besides,” he said, with the air of a poker player laying down a royal flush, “he has a partner.”

“What?” It was Anathema’s turn to choke on her drink. “Since when? He hasn’t said anything to me.”

“Well, they’ve been together a few months, at least. I met her the first time I went to the dance studio.”

“Her? Her who?” Anathema seemed really confused now.

“One of the other ballerinas, a girl called Bella.”

Anathema burst out laughing the moment she heard Bella’s name. “Oh, Zira, dear, you’ve got this wrong on so many levels,” she said. “Apart from the fact that Crowley is the gayest man I’ve ever met – except maybe for you – there’s specifically and categorically no way that he’s in a romantic relationship with Bella Zebub, of all people.”

“Oh really?” said Aziraphale indignantly. “Then why did he introduce her as his partner?”

“His _dance_ partner, you muppet,” said Anathema. “Nothing more; I’d bet my mother’s life on it.”

“Oh. OH.” Said Aziraphale, as the penny finally dropped. “But... she always seemed so... possessive of Crowley.”

“Well, as I understand it, she’s had a massive crush on him for years now; just can’t get over the fact that he won’t succumb to her charms.” Anathema rolled her eyes. “Maybe she thinks persistence will win out in the end, I don’t know. But I do know that she’s no competition – if you’re interested, that is.”

His face must have done something embarrassing, because Anathema pointed at him and said “Ha! I knew it!”

This caused Aziraphale to blush deeply and retort, “Don’t make me uninvite you, Anathema!”

“Oh, don’t you dare,” she said, hooking her arm into his with a grin. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world!”

\---

True to her word, Anathema showed up on Friday night wearing a high-necked black dress, high-heeled boots and an impressive selection of vaguely occult-looking jewelry. She was breathtaking. Aziraphale, on the other hand, had stuck to his usual tan slacks and button up, adding a camel-coloured jacket and dark blue bow-tie as a concession to the semi-formal setting. They must look very odd together, thought Aziraphale, like day and night. They were hanging around in the foyer before the start of the show, drinking champagne and admiring the opulence of the building.

“Angel!” came Crowley’s voice from behind him, startling Aziraphale so much that he actually yelped and jumped a bit, spilling his champagne. This caused Crowley and Anathema to burst out laughing, while Aziraphale glared at them. Anathema collected herself quickly, but Crowley’s laugh turned into a hacking cough.

“Are you okay?” asked Anathema, slapping him on the back.

“Fine,” wheezed Crowley, “Choked on my own spit.”

Aziraphale frowned. Crowley had been coughing a lot lately; he’d had some sort of flu a couple of months ago and this cough had been lingering since.

Crowley grabbed a glass of juice from a passing waiter and gulped it down, which finally calmed the cough. “I’m so glad you guys came!” he beamed.

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, matching his smile. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

“Not that we’re not glad to see you,” said Anathema, “but aren’t you supposed to be warming up or something?”

“Technically, yes,” admitted Crowley, “But I’m only on about twenty minutes into the show, so I figured I could steal a minute or two to come greet my fan club.”

“We’re honoured, m’lord,” laughed Aziraphale.

“Quite,” said Anathema drily. “Now get back there and do your prep things, before you literally break a leg.”

“Yes, sarge,” said Crowley with a mock salute, earning him a slap on the arm from Anathema. He gave them each a peck on the cheek, then turned and headed back to the stage door, shouting “see you after!” over his shoulder.

Anathema took one look at Aziraphale’s flushed face, and burst out laughing.

“Oh, shut it,” grumbled Aziraphale, and took a sip of champagne to try and hide his embarrassment. Fortunately for him, he was saved from further teasing by the bell chiming, calling them to take their seats for the show.

\---

The ballet was every bit as breathtaking as Crowley had promised. Aziraphale felt a thrill of excitement when he heard the now-familiar phoenix music start – this is what he had come for, after all.

Aziraphale had seen Crowley’s dance in bits and pieces on video, but it hadn’t prepared him for the real thing. Crowley’s movement mimicked the flowing lines of the melody, his lean body flying across the stage as if he had a special arrangement with the laws of physics. He had a cape of sorts tied at his elbows and wrists, the gossamer-fine fabric glowing orange and red in the stage lights. As he twirled and leapt, it trailed behind him like wings... like flames.

Aziraphale was transfixed, leaning forward to stare at the death sequence: the leaps... the spin... he smiled to himself when the audience gasped at Crowley’s collapse. It was very convincing; if he hadn’t known to expect it, it would have given him quite a fright. As it was, he simply counted under his breath, waiting for the second part of the music to begin.

On cue, the strains of a cello broke the silence, a tentative, mournful melody. But something wasn’t quite right – wasn’t Crowley supposed to be moving by now? Had he changed the choreography at the last moment? But the music picked up, and still Crowley didn’t move. Something was definitely amiss.

“Crowley?!” came a shout from the wings, followed by a black-clad figure running onto the stage, kneeling by Crowley and shaking his unresponsive form. More people came running onto the stage as the curtain was lowered and the music faded to silence.

Aziraphale saw none of this – he was already pushing his way out of the auditorium, heading for the stage door.

Backstage was a madhouse. Aziraphale looked around for a familiar face. As luck would have it, Bella came hurrying past. He grabbed her by the arm. “Where’s Crowley? Is he okay?” he asked, panic tinting his voice.

“The fuck are you doing here?” she growled, shooting him a venomous look before shaking his hand off and hurrying away. Aziraphale was taken aback at her open hostility. He shook his head, resuming his search.

The next vaguely official-looking person he asked pointed him in the direction of the back door in response to his hasty question. As he rounded a corner, he saw blue and red light flashing through the open door. An ambulance, then. He felt his throat constrict with panic, and redoubled his speed, pushing people out of the way with no regard for acceptable behaviour.

He grabbed the first medic he encountered by her arm. “Where is he? Is he okay?” His voice came out high-pitched, pleading.

“He’s stable, but still unconscious. We have to get him to hospital for further tests,” replied the medic in a matter-of-fact voice. “We’re taking him to Great Ormond Street; you can follow us there.”

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale. “Take care of him, please,” he half-yelled to the medic’s retreating back. She gave him a wan smile and a nod over her shoulder before climbing into the passenger seat of the ambulance. He watched as it drove off into the night, sirens blaring.

Aziraphale took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself. He should probably find Anathema, tell her what’s going on. And then, he needed to get to that hospital. Pronto.

\---

Anathema insisted on going to the hospital with him. He was grateful for her presence, because it turned out that the hospital was not inclined to be particularly helpful.

“Are you family of Mr. Crowley?” asked the nurse at the A&E desk.

“No, just friends,” said Aziraphale. “But please, you have to let us see him.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t allow anyone but his immediate family to go in. Hospital policy. You’ll have to come back tomorrow during visiting hours.”

“Can’t you at least find out how he’s doing?” demanded Anathema.

Just then, Aziraphale spotted the medic he’d talked to at the theatre. “Never mind,” he muttered, and hurried off to accost her.

“How’s he doing? Is he awake yet?”

The medic looked at him blankly for a moment before she recognised him. “The ballerina, yes? He’s conscious, and stable,” she said.

“Oh, thank God,” said Anathema as Aziraphale sagged in relief.

“They’re running some tests to find out what’s going on. It’s not usual for a healthy young man to collapse, so they want to rule out anything serious.” She put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “They’ll be busy for a few hours yet. Go home, get some rest; they won’t tell you anything anyway. That head nurse is a bloody stickler for the rules. Phone in the morning; they might have some news by then.”

Aziraphale nodded, swallowing against the tears that were threatening to well up in his throat. “Thank you,” he managed, before turning to leave.

It was going to be a long night.


	7. - seven -

Aziraphale did not sleep that night. As soon as he got back to his dorm room, he sent Crowley a text:

> (Sent 22:43) Please let me know if you’re okay. They wouldn’t let me see you at the hospital because I’m not family. I will try again tomorrow.
> 
> (Not sent) Please, please be okay.

He rolled around in his bed, trying and failing to fall asleep. At 6 AM he gave it up for a lost cause, made a cup of tea and phoned the hospital. After a frustrating minute or so spent navigating the automated answering service, he finally got through to the nursing desk at the A&E. The phone was answered by a young female voice; not the same nurse from the previous evening, thank goodness.

“I’m phoning for an update on Anthony Crowley. I’m his... uh... brother.” He trusted Crowley would forgive him that little white lie; he did not feel up to a reprise of last night.

“Please hold for a moment,” said the woman. There was the sound of typing and papers being shuffled; machines beeping and people talking somewhere in the background. Aziraphale drummed his fingers on his knee, wishing she’d hurry up.

“Okay,” came her voice again. “Looks like Mr. Crowley is doing well. We’re still waiting for some of the blood results. There’s a good chance he’ll be able to go home once the doctor’s seen him.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” said Aziraphale. “Do you know what’s wrong? Why did he collapse?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss his diagnosis or test results over the phone,” explained the nurse.

“Of course, I understand,” replied Aziraphale. He hadn’t really expected anything else.

“The doctors start their rounds at eight,” she added helpfully. “If you come around then, I’m sure they’d be happy to talk to you.”

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful,” he said, before hanging up.

He opened his messaging app and sent a quick text to Anathema, updating her with what he’d just learned. He noticed that the message he sent to Crowley last night still hadn’t been read. Sighing, he sent another:

> (Sent 06:23) Hope you’re doing okay. Please text me when you get this.

He grabbed his sketchbook and pencils and settled himself on the bed, hoping to distract himself with a bit of drawing. But it seemed as if fate was conspiring against him, as the sketchbook fell open to the drawing of the phoenix. His mind flashed back to Crowley admiring the drawing, face alive with enthusiasm for the upcoming show.

Aziraphale snapped the book shut and threw it to the floor with perhaps more force than was warranted. He buried his face in his hands as a sob broke from his throat. It felt like a dam breaking, as the emotional rollercoaster of the past twenty-four hours overwhelmed him. He didn’t even try to fight it, just sat quietly sobbing into his pillow until his body seemed to run out of tears. Then he allowed himself to fall over sideways on his bed, pulled the blankets up over his head, and let sleep claim him at last.

\---

He was woken a few hours later by the chirping of his phone. He stared at it blearily, mind still clouded with sleep. The name on his screen jolted him awake instantly, though:

> From: Crowley (Received 09:52) hey angel im okay
> 
> From: Crowley (Received 09:52) only got my phone back now, sorry
> 
> From: Crowley (Received 09:53) being discharged, just waiting for paperwork n meds
> 
> From: Crowley (Received 09:53) come visit later?

Aziraphale felt a surge of relief. Crowley was okay, he was going home. He fired off a quick reply:

> (Sent 09:55) Of course I want to come visit. Let me know when you’re ready for me.

It was mid-afternoon before Crowley texted him the address of his mother’s home, explaining that he’d be staying there while he recovered. Now, Aziraphale was knocking on the front door of an intimidatingly upmarket house in one of London’s posher neighbourhoods, wishing he’d thought to bring Anathema along.

The door was opened by a tall, elegantly dressed woman, the rich auburn shade of her hair suggesting that she was Crowley’s mother. “Hello, ma’am,” said Aziraphale politely. “I’m Aziraphale, one of Crowley’s friends.”

“Oh, yes, Anthony said he was expecting a friend,” she said, opening the door. “Come on in; I’ll show you to his room.”

He followed her down a corridor in awkward silence, not really sure what to say, until she knocked on a half-open door and gestured him inside with a smile.

Aziraphale felt his heart soar when he caught sight of his friend, but his joy was quickly overtaken by shock.

For starters, Crowley was lying in bed. It took Aziraphale a moment to put his finger on why it looked so wrong, and the he realised: in all the months he’d known Crowley, he’d never actually seen him sit still except when he was modelling for a drawing. He was always fidgeting, tapping his feet, shifting around even when ostensibly at rest. Now he was just lying there, body propped up on a pile of pillows, so still he may as well have been paralysed.

“Hey, angel,” he greeted, smiling weakly.

Aziraphale saw how pale his face looked, dark circles like bruises under his eyes. “Hello, dear,” he replied, smiling warmly, not even bothering to try and stop the endearment slipping out. He sat down on the bed next to Crowley’s legs. “How are you feeling?” he asked gently.

“Like shit,” replied Crowley with a mirthless laugh. He was staring at the window, the usual sparkle missing from his eyes. His hands were fidgeting nervously with the edge of his duvet. Aziraphale noticed he still had a sticking plaster on the back of one hand where an IV line must have been, surrounded by a bluish-purple bruise. The dark stain against the pale skin made him look oddly fragile, and Aziraphale felt an overwhelming surge of protectiveness toward his friend.

“So...” said Aziraphale after a moment, not sure how to bring up the burning question. “What did the doctors say? Do they know why you passed out?”

“Yeah, more or less,” answered Crowley, but he seemed reluctant to say more. He still hadn’t met Aziraphale’s gaze since their initial hello. After a few beats, he added quietly, “It’s bad.”

Aziraphale felt his chest constrict with a panic that was too rapidly becoming familiar. How serious could it be? Was it something deadly? He laid a hand on Crowley’s knee, as much to calm himself as to reassure his friend. “You can tell me,” he said, voice only just not quavering. “I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. But... you can. If you need someone to talk to. I’m here for you.”

Crowley made a strangled noise, somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and mumbled something that sounded like “We’ll see about that.” Aziraphale just gave his knee a squeeze.

Crowley lifted his eyes to meet Aziraphale’s briefly, then dropped his gaze back to his hands. “They ran a whole bunch of tests,” he said softly. “CT’s, brain scans, ECGs, the whole lot. Drew enough blood to feed a family of vampires for a week.” Trust Crowley to make jokes when he’s in the middle of a crisis, thought Aziraphale fondly. “But in the end, they could have figured it out with a simple finger-prick test. Just one little drop of blood.”

He seemed to run out of steam at this point, screwed his eyes shut as if trying not to cry. Aziraphale sat silently, rubbing circles against the side of Crowley’s knee with his thumb.

After a few breaths, Crowley managed to croak out. “I have... I tested positive for... HIV.”

Aziraphale felt his insides turn to ice. _No,_ he thought to himself. _No, no, no. Not him! Not Crowley! Not..._ He felt Crowley’s leg pull away as the redhead hugged his knees to his chest, burying his face in his arms. His shoulders trembled as he tried to muffle the sound of his tears.

Aziraphale felt his heart break for his friend. He shuffled over to his side, wrapped his arms around the redhead’s lanky form. “Oh, Crowley,” he whispered into his hair, “I’m so, so sorry...” Crowley turned and flung his arms around Aziraphale, burying his face against his soft shoulder, and gave in to his grief.

Who knows how long they sat there, Crowley shaking as he sobbed and Aziraphale rocking him like a child, rubbing gentle circles on his back and making vague soothing noises.

Eventually Crowley calmed down enough to pull away and wipe his eyes on the back of his hand. “Sorry,” he said, voice rough, “Made a mess of your shirt.”

“Fuck my shirt” said Aziraphale vaguely. The uncharacteristic expletive pulled a surprised chuckle from Crowley, which triggered a bout of coughing. Aziraphale rubbed his back, waiting for it to pass. Crowley gestured for the water bottle standing on his bedside table and took a few sips.

“Thanks,” he croaked.

“Anytime,” responded Aziraphale.

“No, I mean,” Crowley turned to look Aziraphale in the eye. “Thanks for staying, for comforting me, for not running. For not being... disgusted.”

“Never. I could never...” replied Aziraphale, his voice thick with emotion.

They sat in silence for a few moments, each lost in his own thoughts.

“It was the drugs that did it. Dirty needles, you know.” Crowley closed his eyes. “I know what people will think. Gay man gets HIV. Like some bloody 90’s cliché.” He sighed. Aziraphale realised dimly that it was the first time Crowley had openly alluded to his sexuality. “But I never... there’s never been anyone. Never will be, now,” he added wryly. 

Aziraphale didn’t know whether he wanted to cry or scream at that. Did Crowley really think so little of himself, that he believed this one small thing cancelled out all the amazing things about him? “Don’t say that,” he said softly, giving Crowley’s hand a squeeze. “You’re still you, exactly as you were before. Anyone who can’t see that is just an idiot.”

Crowley returned a weak smile. “Thanks, angel. I hope you’re right.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Mrs. Crowley stuck her head in the door and said, “Supper’s just about ready, boys. Are you eating with us, Aziraphale?” she asked.

“Oh, gosh, is it that late already?” said Aziraphale, suddenly flustered. “I can go, if you -”

He was interrupted by Crowley’s hand on his arm. “Stay, please?” he asked, almost pleadingly.

Aziraphale smiled (how could he refuse?) and turned to Mrs. Crowley. “I’d love to stay for supper, thank you,” he said.

She nodded. “I’ll bring your food up to the room,” she said, before leaving again.

“So, what have you been up to at uni lately?” asked Crowley over supper. Aziraphale got the impression that his friend desperately wanted some sense of normality, and he was just as glad to take a break from the heavy emotional stuff. They spent the meal talking about lighter topics, Aziraphale regaling Crowley with stories from his classes and Crowley dishing out all the newest gossip from the dance company. By the time they’d finished eating, the atmosphere in the room had lightened considerably, and they were laughing together just like always.

Crowley suggested they watch a movie, so they sat up his laptop at the foot of the bed. One movie became two, at which point Aziraphale gave up any hope of returning to his own place that night. Crowley’s mother had already offered him the spare room for the night, which he gratefully accepted.

Halfway through the third movie, Aziraphale became aware that Crowley was snoring softly, having finally fallen asleep. He carefully shut off the movie and put the laptop away, taking care not to wake Crowley, and he turned back to the bed to make sure his friend was comfortable before he left. Crowley had been half sitting up when he fell asleep, and his spine was twisted in a way that would guarantee a killer headache come morning. Aziraphale carefully slid one hand under his knees and the other around his neck, and shuffled him down on the bed until he was lying in a more natural sleeping position. As he was pulling away, Crowley suddenly reached out and snaked his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, squeezing him tight and nuzzling a muffled “angel, soft angel,” into his neck, before going slack again as sleep reclaimed him.

Aziraphale carefully disentangled himself, quashing the desire to simply snuggle down on the bed next to him. He allowed himself a few moments to study Crowley’s sleeping form. His face was still unnaturally pale, but it had softened in sleep, the worry lines that had creased it earlier now smoothed away.

Aziraphale reached out and gently brushed his hair out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ear, and pulled the duvet up to cover his shoulders. “Sleep well, my dear,” he whispered fondly, before turning off the light and heading to his own room.


	8. - eight -

Aziraphale visited Crowley several times over the next week. Crowley wasn’t well enough to go back to training yet –he’d only gone out once, to the Ballet, to talk to his friends and colleagues – and Aziraphale certainly wasn’t going to go to the gym by himself. Honestly, the only reason he’d been keeping up with it was because he enjoyed spending the time with Crowley.

One evening, he arrived to find Crowley pacing up and down in his room, scowling at something on his phone. “Look at this!” he snarled, shoving the phone at Aziraphale.

It was open to one of those detestable social media websites, and a photo of Crowley, taken during that last performance, stared back at him. “Ballet star’s dance with death!” screamed the headline. “Sex, drugs and rock bottom: Anthony Crowley’s sordid past catches up!”

Aziraphale felt nauseated as he read through the article. It was all there, all Crowley’s secrets that these idiots had no right to. When his eye caught the name Bella Zebub, the nausea turned to stone cold fury. “That bitch,” he hissed through his teeth. “How dare she?”

“Wha-?” said Crowley, Aziraphale’s voice jerking him out of his reverie.

“Bella,” said Aziraphale. “Looks like she leaked this to the press.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Crowley. “Guess she got tired of pining and decided to settle for revenge. If you think the story’s bad, you should see the comments.”

Aziraphale scrolled down and started reading through the comments, and almost immediately wished he hadn’t. There was the odd supportive or encouraging comment, but they got lost in the sea of malicious invective. It seemed as if every hate-filled, homophobic, judgmental troll ever to haunt the internet had felt the need to weigh in on Crowley’s misfortune.

Crowley was still pacing back and forth nervously, running his hands through his hair.

Aziraphale threw the phone down on the bed in disgust. “Bullshit,” he said, decisively.

That was enough to cause Crowley to pause in his pacing. “What?” he said.

“Bullshit,” repeated Aziraphale. “That’s what it is.”

“It’s not, though,” argued Crowley. “Not all of it. I’m a performer, dammit. Things like this,” he gestured at the phone lying on the bed, “tabloids, scandals – they can be the end of a dancer. Enough bad press, and no-one will touch you again. And you know the worst part?” he said, grabbing Aziraphale by the shoulders. “The worst part is that it’s not just lies or rumours. It’s facts. I’m sick. I’m probably gonna get sicker, even with medication. Angel-,” Crowley’s voice cracked. “I may never dance again. Do you know what that means? Do you have any idea? Ballet is my life. I’m not sure I even know who I am without it. If I can’t dance... what good am I?”

Tears were running down Crowley’s cheeks, and Aziraphale felt his own throat constrict in sympathy. Crowley was still holding on to his shoulders, and he brought his hands up to cup his elbows. “Don’t say that. You’re an extraordinary dancer, yes, but you’re so much more. You’re kind, and you’re brilliant, and you’re one of the most wonderful people I’ve ever known. And if the rest of the world can’t see that, they’re idiots.”

Aziraphale gathered Crowley in his arms, enveloping him in a hug. “You’ll get through this, I know you will. You’re stronger than anyone I know. And I’m here for you, every step of the way.”

“Promise?” asked Crowley, face buried in Aziraphale’s neck.

“Promise,” replied Aziraphale. “As long as you need me, and in any way that you want me.”

Crowley pulled back to look at Aziraphale. “What was that?” he said.

“What was what? Aziraphale asked, flustered. He knew exactly what Crowley was asking, of course, and he cursed himself for allowing his emotions to run away with his mouth.

“You said in any way that I want you,” said Crowley. Clearly, he was not going let it go. “Angel... do you... _like_ me?” he asked, a note of incredulity in his voice.

“Of course I like you, silly,” Aziraphale said lightly, attempting a deflection. “You’re my best friend. We spend most of our free time together, one way or another. Be a bit awkward if I didn’t like you, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh,” said Crowley. “Friend. Yes, of course.” He seemed... disappointed? Was that it?

“ _Best_ friend,” amended Aziraphale, looking carefully at Crowley to try and judge his reaction. Hopeful?

“Crowley, I’m not kidding when I say you’re one of the most amazing people I know. I’m not just saying it because you’re upset, or because I’m trying to make you feel better or anything. I mean it. And I don’t say that sort of thing lightly.”

Crowley was looking at him with an intensity that was almost breathtaking, his expression inscrutable. “Angel,” he breathed. “You can’t just say stuff like that. Not if you don’t...” Crowley trailed off, looked away.

“And if I do?” asked Aziraphale, bringing a had to Crowley’s chin and gently turning him to make eye contact.

“Do you?” asked Crowley breathlessly.

“Do I what?” whispered Aziraphale, not sure that this was happening; so, so afraid that he was misunderstanding it.

“Do you.. like me... as more than a friend? Or even best friend?” Crowley closed his eyes as he asked this, and Aziraphale was grateful for the break in eye contact, overwhelmed by the emotions welling up in him.

“I do,” he whispered, also closing his eyes, afraid of what may come next. His head tilted forward, his forehead coming to rest against Crowley’s collarbone. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I do.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what reaction he’d expected, although he could have listed any number of possibilities, both hoped for and dreaded. But he never would have predicted feeling a drop of water land on his temple. He pulled back, puzzled, and realised it was a tear. Crowley had started crying again.

“Crowley?” he asked, suddenly worried. “Is something wrong? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have –“

Crowley muffled his protests by pulling him into a hug, a laugh welling up through his tears. “Angel,” he said. “You just took one of the worst days of my life, and turned it into one of the best. Don’t you dare apologise!”

Aziraphale joined in Crowley’s laugh, relief welling up through him. He embraced Crowley, hugging him tight, rejoicing in the fact that he was finally, finally allowed to do this.

They stood like that for a good minute or two, just enjoying the closeness. Aziraphale ran his fingertips up and down Crowley’s spine, just like he’s imagined so many times, thrilling at the gentle intimacy of the touch. Crowley brought a hand up to the back of Aziraphale’s head and ran his fingers through the soft blonde curls. Eventually, the hand found its way down to Aziraphale’s cheek, and Crowley pulled back slightly to look him in the eye.

“Angel,” he whispered softly. “Can I...?” he let the question trail off, but his intention was clear.

Aziraphale wasn’t at all sure his brain could formulate words right now, so he simply raised himself up on his toes and pressed his lips carefully to Crowley’s.

Crowley let out a small gasp, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he tilted his head to the side, guiding Aziraphale’s face with the one hand still on his cheek, and slotted their lips together. The kiss was soft, slow, heartbreakingly gentle.

It was quite some time before either of them wanted to come up for air.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187976701@N07/49781266452/in/dateposted-public/)


	9. - nine -

The next few weeks were an emotional rollercoaster for Aziraphale. On the one hand, he was young, and in love, and his love was reciprocated. What could be better than that? Sure, there had been some awkward conversations – inevitable, really, with Crowley’s illness – but their easy friendship had not changed since they added romance to the mix. Crowley had been rather distressed that sex was, for all intents and purposes, off the table. “Why would you want that, angel?” he’d asked. “Why would you settle for getting only half a boyfriend?”

Aziraphale had shut that down very quickly. “If you think I’m dating you just for sex, you’re making a big mistake. What we have now – touching, kissing, being allowed to call you mine – it’s enough.”

“But it won’t always be enough,” countered Crowley. “Someday, you’ll want more, and I won’t be able to give it to you.”

“Listen to me,” Aziraphale had said. “Let’s not borrow trouble, okay? Let’s just enjoy what we have now without worrying about some hypothetical future scenario. Yes, maybe someday we’ll want to do more – but the point is, the only reason I’d even want more is because it’s _you_ , so that’s not exactly going to make me leave. Besides,” he said, his grin turning mischievous, “I’ve read enough saucy romance novels to know that there’s plenty we could do without, uh, risking transmission. If you know what I mean,” he added with a wink.

Crowley’s face went bright red at this, and he buried it in Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he mumbled. “You’re perfect. I love you.”

Perhaps Aziraphale should have been surprised at this confession, made so casually, as if it were simply a self-evident fact. Instead, he simply felt a deep sense of _rightness_. “I love you too,” he said, pressing a kiss to the side of Crowley’s head. “With my whole heart.”

But – and there’s always a but, isn’t there? - making their relationship official also implied making it public, and other people’s reactions weren’t always easy to bear.

Anathema was delighted, of course, and immediately started planning double dates with her and Newt. Crowley’s ballet colleagues were, if anything, baffled – “we thought you guys were together for a couple of months at least,” explained one dancer, to general agreement. Crowley’s mother also took the news in stride. Crowley had been out to her for years, and she seemed to approve of Aziraphale. She did, however, take him aside for a chat one afternoon, just to make sure that he knew what he was getting himself into. Aziraphale did his best to reassure her, but he also knew that only time would win her wholehearted trust.

As for Aziraphale’s family... well, they were a different matter. Aziraphale had never really discussed his sexuality with his parents – there had never been anyone serious in his life, so it had never seemed worth the trouble to bring it up. His dad was a traditional sort of man, and Aziraphale knew coming out to him was bound to be... problematic, so he’d just chosen to avoid the topic. Now, however, he couldn’t put it off any longer. To his surprise, he didn’t even want to. He loved Crowley, he was proud of him, and he wasn’t prepared to hide it. So he arranged to visit them at the earliest opportunity.

“And how’s Anthony doing?” asked his mother over supper. “I saw the stories in the paper. That poor boy.” His mother shook her head in sympathy, but his dad just huffed.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that,” said Aziraphale, gathering his courage. He took a deep breath and said. “Crowley’s no longer my friend. He’s my boyfriend.”

Aziraphale’s father actually dropped his fork. For a moment, the clattering of the metal on the tile floor was the only sound in the kitchen. The he just pushed his chair back, got up, and walked out of the room.

Aziraphale looked over to his mom, eyes wide. To his surprise, she was smiling gently. She reached out a hand and laid it gently on his. “Zira, you’re my son. And I’m an artist; I always look beyond the surface. You didn’t think I’d notice?” When he smiled weakly, she continued. “You’re a smart boy – I know you know that this will not be a simple relationship. I know you know the risks. I don’t need to lecture you.”

“Thanks, mom,” said Aziraphale, and gave her hand a squeeze.

\---

Aziraphale’s father didn’t speak to him until the next morning. When he did, it was clear that his wife had had a serious talk with him. “I won’t pretend that I understand,” he said awkwardly, “and I’m not sure if I approve. But you’re my son, and I want you to be happy. And if this boy makes you happy, well, I’ll accept that.”

Aziraphale nodded, tears welling up in his eyes. This was far more than he’d expected. “Thanks, dad,” he said. “That means a lot to me.”

“However,” said his father, a bit more sternly, “I also want you to be safe.”

Aziraphale hurriedly interrupted him, not wanting _That Talk_ from his father at this time of morning. “I know, dad. I did my homework. We won’t do anything that puts me at risk.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said his father. “Well, okay, that’s important too, but you’re not a child anymore; I’m sure you know the risks. No, I meant this.” He handed Aziraphale a business card. “This is one of my colleagues; he’s the best virologist in London. I spoke to him about taking over Anthony’s care. He’s expecting your call.”

Aziraphale looked from the card to his father and back again a few times. Then he flung his arms around his father’s neck and hugged him tight. “Thank you, dad,” he managed through the tears. “I love you.”

\---

Aziraphale went with Crowley to see the virologist the following week. He held his hand through the whole visit, asking questions and offering emotional support. Crowley looked calm enough to the casual observer, but Aziraphale knew him well enough to see the cracks in the mask that was barely concealing the fear and uncertainty underneath. More than once he found himself thanking his lucky stars that they were living in the 21st century, and medical advances had turned HIV from a death sentence into a chronic illness that could still allow his love to live a long and relatively healthy life.

Unfortunately, miraculous as the antiretroviral drugs seemed, they weren’t without drawbacks. Crowley’s body didn’t tolerate them at all well in the beginning; his entire digestive tract seemed to pack up for a few weeks. By the time he was able to tolerate solid food again, he had lost almost ten kilograms, and his beautiful muscle definition was fading. Before he had time to recover properly, he landed in hospital with a particularly nasty pneumonia. In a sense, that was also because of the ARVs: the doctor explained that, as the drugs started working and his immune system improved, his body could mount a stronger inflammatory response to the infection, and that was what was causing the severe symptoms. The infection itself had probably been present for a while, or had been treated before and had been lying dormant, unnoticed by his weakened immune system. Now that his immune system was getting stronger, it was attacking the infection with renewed vigour; the inflammation in his lungs was collateral damage.

The renewed inflammatory response and his steadily climbing CD4-counts suggested that Crowley was getting better, but it sure didn’t feel that way. The illness was taking its toll on him; not only physically, but mentally. Aziraphale had always thought it was an exaggeration to say someone was wasting away before your eyes, but now he got to witness it first-hand. He would much rather not have. Crowley looked thinner every time he saw him, his body drawing on all its reserves to fight off the pneumonia and adjust to the medication. Aziraphale mourned the loss of that beautiful body, glad that he’d had the chance to capture it on paper.

Crowley seemed less upset about his appearance, and far more upset about what his body could no longer do. He was weakened by the illness and constantly exhausted; even walking to the bathroom and back left him winded. His mind, however, was as restless as it had ever been, and this manifested itself in alternating bouts of irritability and melancholy. Aziraphale did his best to cheer his boyfriend up: he distracted him with silly stories and gossip from school, brought him movies to watch, dragged Anathema along for the odd visit. He very carefully did not speak of the future, though – it was still too much up in the air, too uncertain, and bound to send Crowley spiralling into gloom.

“I hate what my life has become, angel,” he confessed to Aziraphale one day, a bit more than a week into his hospital stay. “I’m trapped in this hospital, or at home, doing nothing, being no good to anyone.” Crowley’s words from all those weeks earlier echoed in his mind: _If I can’t dance... what good am I?_ Aziraphale reacted in the only way he could: with overwhelming affection. He held Crowley tightly, whispered assurances into his ear, _you’re wonderful, you’ll get through this, things will get better again. You’re not alone. I love you_. He wasn’t sure if it was helping, but he didn’t know what else to do.

Aziraphale was being strong for Crowley’s sake, putting on a brave face, but the whole situation was taking a heavy toll on him. When he left the hospital after visits, he felt wrung out, all his emotional reserves expended in trying to keep Crowley’s spirits up. After one particularly harrowing day, Aziraphale decided not to go home – he wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Crowley’s gaunt form, hopelessness marring his beautiful face (and he still was beautiful, even like this; to Aziraphale, he always would be). Instead, falling back on his most reliable coping mechanism, he headed for the art studio.

\---

Aziraphale threw his pencil against the far wall, frustrated. It just wasn’t working. He was drawing Crowley, partly from photos and partly from memory, but the figure on the page seemed like a stranger. This wasn’t him anymore, was it? Maybe it would be again someday, who could say, but at this moment, the perfectly toned ballerina was a stranger to his eyes. He pulled out a new piece of paper, closed his eyes, and lost himself in the mental images he’d been trying to avoid. There he was, _his_ Crowley, the man he loved. Not the perfect godlike creature he’s first met, but the very human man who was hurting, broken. _It’s our flaws that make us human, after all,_ Professor Tracy’s words came back to him. He opened his eyes again, resolve firm: this time, he would draw the truth.

It took a couple of hours of feverish work and many silent tears before he had a Crowley he recognised on the paper before him. It was raw and honest, his pain and grief given form on paper. But it wasn’t enough. It didn’t tell the whole story. He grabbed a second, larger piece of paper, and a stick of charcoal, and set to work again. This was Crowley as he remembered him; as he had to believe would be again one day: dancing, flying, defying gravity in the sheer joy of movement. But it wasn’t enough; something was still missing. Aziraphale spotted a tray of paints; yes, that would do. The lines of charcoal were joined by smears of paint: red, orange, yellow, engulfing the ethereal figure in wings of flame.

Aziraphale sketched and scratched and painted, not noticing the hours steadily ticking by. By the time he finished, the sky was brightening with the promise of dawn. It was echoed by the sense of lightness seeping through his own heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some good news for our boys: <https://www.nih.gov/news-events/news-releases/science-clear-hiv-undetectable-equals-untransmittable>


	10. - ten -

_The phoenix, that creature of unrivalled majesty, lives out its days in paradise. At the end of its lifespan, when weariness and old age begin to steal its strength, the magnificent bird flies to the east and builds for itself a nest of spices and myrrh. Then, at dawn, it sings a song of unsurpassed beauty, sweet and melancholy, causing the very sun to halt in its path... before perishing in flame._

_But do not mourn its passing, dear friend. For in three days’ time, the phoenix rises from the ashes, its strength renewed, its splendour even greater than before. Through endless cycles of death and rebirth, the phoenix will always return to grace the world with its presence._

\---

Crowley’s strength slowly returned once the pneumonia was under control. He threw himself into physical therapy with vigour, determined to return to the dance studio as soon as humanly possible. It was slow going, at first; he had lost so much muscle tone that even the simplest movements seemed impossible. But he persevered, stubbornly pushing through every setback, and as the weeks went by the hard work began to pay off.

The first small triumph was returning home; the second, being able to get through his daily tasks without help. A major turning point came a few weeks later, when he was able to return to gym. Not long after that, he started attending practices at the Ballet. He couldn’t do much at first, even in the beginners’ classes; but the simple joy of being back in a dance studio, moving his body to the music, did more to lift his spirits that any amount of therapy or antidepressants could.

“Angel, look here,” he said one day. They were hanging out in Aziraphale’s room; Crowley doing his PT exercises while Aziraphale worked on an Art History paper. Aziraphale turned around, curious, and nearly fell off his chair in surprise: Crowley was sitting in the middle of the carpet, leg raised into the air, in a perfect echo of the first time Aziraphale had sketched him. He was smiling like a kid on Christmas morning, and Aziraphale knew his face must be a mirror image of Crowley’s. He knelt on the floor in front of Crowley and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “You are still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmured. Crowley let out a laugh as he dropped his leg and put his arms around Aziraphale.

\---

A few months after his return, Crowley was approached by one of the choreographers at the Royal Ballet; the very same one who had worked with him on the phoenix. He was working on a new dance, but getting stuck; would Crowley be willing to give some input? Crowley knew he would never be a prima ballerina now – the combination of his age and his illness had sealed that deal – but he still lived and breathed ballet, so of course there was no way he would turn down that opportunity. He took to choreography like a duck to water, and before he knew it, he was spending as much time coaching as he was dancing. That first show he was involved in was a roaring success, and before long he had a shiny new job title: Assistant Choreographer at the Royal Ballet. Aziraphale went to see every single one of his ballets, bursting with pride.

\---

Crowley, in turn, accompanied Aziraphale to his first exhibition: the much anticipated first-years’ gala. They walked through the exhibits arm-in-arm, Aziraphale sharing stories about the artworks and the students who created them. “Not that this isn’t fun, angel,” complained Crowley, “but where’s yours? I know you’re showing those drawings of me. I want to see if you did me justice.”

“Just around this corner, here,” said Aziraphale. He wasn’t looking at the exhibition anymore; no, he wanted to see Crowley’s reaction. It was, as it turned out, extremely gratifying. Crowley stopped dead in front of the larger-than-life drawing, just staring silently with his mouth ever so slightly open. He slowly walked toward it, lifting a hand as if to touch the textured surface of the paint, but remembered himself in time. In front of him were two images of himself: in the foreground, he was kneeling, head hanging, a picture of despondency and defeat. The drawing was so realistic, so detailed, that it could almost be mistaken for a photograph. In the background, however, was a second Crowley – drawn in sweeping lines of charcoal, almost ghostly, enveloped in wings of flame.

“When did you do this? I don’t remember...” he began.

Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “I did this one when you were in hospital. It was... the moment, and the memory. And also, a wish. A dream for the future.”

“It’s magnificent,” whispered Crowley, causing Aziraphale to blush and duck his head.

“That night, it all just seemed so dark,” explained Aziraphale. “I remembered what you were like before, and I saw where you were then, lying in that hospital, and it broke my heart. But I knew you’d get through it. It couldn’t be the end of your story. Because the phoenix always rises again, right?”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187976701@N07/49780934476/in/dateposted-public/)

\---

A year later, Crowley came bursting into the apartment they now shared, fairly vibrating with excitement. “Angel!” he cried out, “Guess what? I’m gonna do my first solo choreography! They’re finally trusting me to be the lead on a whole show!”

”That’s marvellous, dear,” said Aziraphale, greeting him with a kiss. “What will it be? One of the classics? Or something new?”

“New, of course,” laughed Crowley. “Get this: a ballet set entirely to the music of Queen.”

Aziraphale chuckled at this news. “That’s so very you, dear,” he said, giving Crowley another peck on the cheek. “But I’m sure if anyone can turn bebop into ballet, it would be you.”

“Bebop?” laughed Crowley. “Honestly, angel. I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“Then don’t say anything,” retorted Aziraphale, pressing his lips to Crowley’s.

“One more thing, angel,” Crowley had said in between kisses.

“Hmm?”

“I want you to do the set design.”

The ballet turned out to be a smash hit, and secured Crowley’s position as one of the Ballet’s best choreographers. Aziraphale had front-row tickets for the opening night, and this time, he invited his parents to join him. He was so proud of Crowley, and he wanted to show him off. His mother was predictably enchanted, and even his father had to admit that it was an impressive display.

To Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley interrupted the final bow to pull him onto the stage, proclaiming to the whole auditorium that he was “our extremely talented scenographer, and the love of my life!” Aziraphale blushed, and bowed with Crowley’s hand in his, until the curtain finally dropped.

“You fiend!” he laughed at Crowley once they were out of sight. “You could have warned me!”

“Get used to it, angel,” Crowley had said with a smirk. “I’ve had at least as many compliments on the set as on the dancing. You’ll just have to do this again, and again, and again.”

“Hmmm, and how will I be compensated for all this arduous labour?” asked Aziraphale with a mischievous grin.

“Oh, I think we can make a plan,” said Crowley, before grabbing him and kissing him soundly, much to the delight of the rest of the crew.

Afterwards, they took Aziraphale’s parents out to dinner. They had come to know and love Crowley in the past year, and even Aziraphale’s father now treated him as part of the family.

“You never told us you did the set design, Zira,” said his mother.

“Yes, well,” said Aziraphale, flustered. “I didn’t think it was such a big deal.”

“Oh, come on, angel! Give yourself some credit. Did you know,” he said to Aziraphale’s mother, “he also did the decor for the last time I danced on stage?” When she shook her head, he took out his phone and scrolled to a photo. “Here, see? He did that phoenix that we used on the backdrop.”

She studied the photo for a moment before handing the phone back to Crowley. “Zira, this is wonderful,” she said.

“Thanks, mom.”

“No, love, that’s not my mom opinion,” she clarified. “That’s my opinion as a seasoned artist. You’ve got a gift for this. You should keep doing it, whatever else you do.”

Aziraphale blushed under the praise. “Thanks. That means more to me that you can know.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows at him. “Does that mean I have a scenographer?”

“I guess it means you do,” Aziraphale replied with a smile.

\---

Weeks turned into months turned into years, and before he knew it, Aziraphale was graduating with a shiny new bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts. While the rest of his classmates were preparing for a final summer vacation before hitting the job market, Aziraphale was feverishly working. One Agnes Nutter, a distant relative of Anathema’s, had approached him during their final-year students’ exhibition. She ran a small independent gallery in Soho, she explained, and liked to showcase fresh new talent; would he be interested in contributing a few pieces? At first, he was convinced that Anathema had put her up to it, but it soon became apparent that Agnes had no idea they even knew each other. So Aziraphale gladly accepted, giddy at the thought of his works hanging in an actual gallery, on sale to the public, as if he was a real professional artist.

When his first work sold, Crowley took him to a fancy restaurant to celebrate. “See, angel,” he told him over the wine. “I told you you’d be famous one day.”

“Oh, nonsense,” laughed Aziraphale. “Selling one painting does not make one a famous artist. Whereas you,” he gestured with his glass, “are _the_ hot name on the London ballet scene.”

Crowley chuckled in acknowledgement, but then turned serious. “You know, I’ve come such a long way these past few years, and I don’t think any of it would have happened without you,” he said. “When I first got sick, you were the one who talked me through it. You took me to the doctors, helped me through that horrible spell in hospital, stood by me as I got better. You never stopped believing in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. Somehow, that gave me the strength to get up and keep trying every time. So, just... thank you. for everything. For every single day you’ve been by my side. I’m a better man because of it.”

Aziraphale was beaming, eyes moist with tears. “Oh, my love...” he said, but he was cut off by a kiss.

“Will you stay with me, angel?” Crowley murmured against his lips. “Will you be mine forever?”

“Of course, my love. I’m yours. Always will be.” Aziraphale replied, their lips still touching.

“Will you be mine... officially?” asked Crowley.

Aziraphale pulled back a bit at this question. It sounded a whole lot like... another question. “Do you mean...?” he asked, hardly daring to finish the thought.

“Marry me, my angel?” Crowley whispered in his ear. “Please?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale answered, more a breath than a word. Then he flung his arms around Crowley’s neck, laugh ringing out bright and clear. “Of course I will, my darling. There’s nothing I would like more.”

“Thank God,” chuckled Crowley, and pulled Aziraphale’s mouth to his to seal the deal with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a wild ride! So many thanks to everyone who's been reading along!
> 
> Oh, and the Queen ballet: I've seen it. Mzansi ballet did The Queen Show earlier this year, and it was AMAZING. Seemed like it would suit Crowley :)
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr (Sani-86)


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